


Tacos al Pastor

by reindeerjumper



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Food Poisoning, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt, established relationship au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 21:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10344687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/pseuds/reindeerjumper
Summary: For the prompt:I know it’s our anniversary and we’re all dressed up and everything but I’m not really feeling this fancy restaurant, want to hit up the food truck? (bonus: I got food poisoning from said food truck and I’m puking my guts out but I’m still wearing my fancy clothes so at least I’m still classy)





	

**Author's Note:**

> come squee with me [on my tumblr](http://hisreindeerjumper.tumblr.com)!

“I really am sorry,” Bridget said to the hardwood door of the bathroom as she listened to Mark retch into the toilet. She grimaced a little, partly feeling absolutely awful that their anniversary had gotten mucked up by a bad taco al pastor, and partly out of sympathy for Mark and his food poisoning. He had beelined for the bathroom the second they got home after looking a ghastly shade of white the entire ride home, and he had been in there for almost a half hour now.

Bridget could hear him panting on the other side of the door, and she wrestled with her inner turmoil about letting him be or going in to help him. Mark was not one to readily accept any kind of assistance, especially when sick, but she felt responsible…even if  _he_  had been the one to suggest going to the food truck instead of Cafe Monico. They had been halfway to the restaurant when Mark looked at her with a smirk and said, “I’m feeling rather spontaneous tonight. Why don’t we skip the fancy dinner and get food truck tacos instead? We can walk around the park, enjoy the sunset…” 

Bridget had practically choked at the suggestion.  _Mark Darcy_  was opting out of fancy French fare for a taco from a truck? All she could do was blindly nod in his direction, her mouth slightly agape and her eyebrow cocked in suspicion. This had seemed to please him, because he took her hand between the seats of his BMW and gave a gentle squeeze. “This will be fun,” he had said, giving her a smile across the car.

And it  _had_  been fun. Mark parked the car on a quiet side street near the park, and they strolled in the warm June evening, arm in arm. Mark looked incredibly sexy–he had decided to wear his blue pinstripe suit with a crisp white shirt underneath, the top three buttons undone and his jacket slung over his shoulder. Bridget’s sundress was perfect for the weather, and she hung on Mark’s arm with an easy going comfort. 

It was fun to watch Mark order their food from the brightly colored truck as Bridget lazed on a park bench nearby. She was now holding his suit jacket, so he was simply in his button down and suit trousers, an uncharacteristic ease about him as he scanned the menu with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders relaxed. The softness of his hair curled around his ears and occasionally caught the breeze, fluffing ever so slightly. It was hard to believe that it had been seven years since the stuffy, sideburned barrister had come into Bridget’s life, and she couldn’t help smiling as she watched him pore over the handwritten menu slapped onto the front of the truck. 

Mark had returned to the bench with tacos in-hand– _al pastor_  for himself and chicken for her–with two bottles of Coca-Cola tucked underneath his arm. They had eaten in peaceful silence, occasionally making notes of the people passing by them, or laughing about something from their seven years together that they had forgotten about. Mark had rolled up his shirtsleeves, and Bridget had pulled his suit jacket around her shoulders as the sun sank down. When they finished eating, they headed into the park, towards Primrose Hill to watch the sun set the city on fire.

When they arrived at Primrose Hill, Mark took his suit jacket from around Bridget’s shoulders and placed it on the grass, gesturing for her to sit.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to ruin your suit…”

“I’m positive. I’ll just get it dry cleaned.”

Hesitantly, Bridget had sat down on it, tucking her legs to the side to avoid giving the entire park a show up her skirt, and Mark settled himself next to her. He drew her into his chest, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her into him. Bridget sighed contentedly, leaning heavily against him, soaking up the warmth from his embrace and allowing herself to enjoy the sunset that was now setting the sky aflame. Mark placed a kiss against her temple as he murmured, “I love you so much, Bridget.” She grinned at that, feeling like nothing could ruin this night. 

But it didn’t last for long.

They hadn’t been sitting there for more than 15 minutes when Mark suddenly squirmed next to her. Pulling away from him, Bridget scanned his face concernedly. Suddenly, the wind-fluffed curls that she had been admiring only an hour or so before were now sweaty and clinging to his forehead, and the color had drained completely from his face. 

“Mark? Are you OK?” Bridget had asked, placing a hand on his forearm as her eyebrows knit together.

Unable to speak, Mark simply shook his head. 

“Do you want to go home?”

Mark nodded fervently as he took a deep, steadying breath in. 

That was all Bridget needed to see to quickly stand up, help Mark to his feet, and hastily gather his suit jacket from the ground. They made their way back to the park entrance, Mark almost three feet in front of her the entire time, not saying a word but occasionally bringing a fist to his mouth. He threw himself into the BMW, quickly turned the key in the ignition, and practically peeled away from the curb without a single word.

Halfway home, stuck in London traffic, Mark had gotten spectacularly sick out of the window of the car, much to Bridget’s shock and surprise. Luckily it was standstill traffic as he retched onto the street below. Bridget could see him white-knuckling the window frame as his shoulders heaved, and all she could bring herself to do was rub soothing circles against his damp button down as he continued to get sick. 

Heaving himself back into the car, Mark let out a pitiful moan. The flush on his cheeks was clearly from exertion, and the sweat that had plastered his curls to his forehead was now beading by his hairline. 

“Are you alright?” Bridget had asked hesitantly.

Mark had scrubbed a hand down his face as he nodded. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his mouth and face, then looked at her. 

“I think maybe the taco truck wasn’t a great idea,” he said gruffly. 

Bridget nodded solemnly, not even daring to utter an  _I had a feeling._

“Let’s get you home,” she murmured, rubbing her hand down his forearm and settling her fingers on his shaking hand. Mark nodded, put the car in drive, and made their way back to the house. 

From that point on, Bridget had stationed herself next to the half-bath off of the entryway while Mark moaned and defiled the toilet on the other side of the door.

“I think I’m dying,” came the muffled response to her apology, followed by another loud, echoing moan as Mark got sick again. 

“Can I please come in?” Bridget asked, propping herself up from the sitting position she was in against the wall. She had gotten Mark a glass of water maybe ten minutes prior, and it seemed as good a time as any to give it to him.

Mark let out a moan again, and Bridget huffed indignantly. “I’m coming in, so make sure you’re not sprawled out on the floor,” she said, standing up. She turned the knob and gently pushed it open. Mark was sitting next to the toilet with his back against the wall. He had one knee up with his forearm resting against it, while his other hand sat pathetically on the seat of the toilet. His head had rolled back against the wall, and it was clear that the sweating hadn’t stopped. The hair on top of his head was soaked, and he had sweat through the white button down he was wearing. In all honesty, he looked a disheveled mess. One pant leg was scrunched up–probably from him writhing on the floor–and his sock was scrunched down. He had unbuttoned a few more of the buttons on his shirt, and Bridget could see the glistening skin underneath.

She inched her way into the tiny bathroom and handed Mark the glass of water. “You need to keep hydrated,” she said as he took it from her. He closed his eyes in a grimace as he took a sip of the water before promptly putting it down next to him on the floor. 

“Bridget, I’m dying,” he rasped out, cradling his face in his hand as he took a deep breath.

“You’re not dying. You have food poisoning.”

“You don’t know that I’m not dying. I truly think I’m dying.”

“Mark.”

At this, Mark brought his head to the bowl again, dry heaving into the toilet with incredible dramatics. After a minute, he slumped back against the wall with a pained look on his face as he looked at Bridget with the most feeble eyes she had ever seen. 

“Can I do anything for you?” she asked quietly, trying to choke down the laugh in her throat. She had never seen Mark so…well,  _pathetic_.

“Just…keep me company?”

“I suppose I could do that.”

Tucking her skirt underneath her bum, Bridget slid down the wall opposite of Mark and seated herself on the floor. Mark gave her a weak smile.  

“Sorry I ruined the entire night,” he said, sheepishly looking at the hand that had resumed its position on his knee. 

“You didn’t ruin it. It was quite nice…until you projectile vomited out of the car.”

“I should have just stuck to your dinner plans. I love Cafe Monico. I don’t know why I suddenly felt daredevilish and spontaneous.”

Bridget laughed. “I won’t lie, I was  _very_  surprised at your suggestion.”

Mark smiled. “I just know you like when I’m…not my usual, stuffy self.”

“You’re not stuffy, Mark. You’re very spontaneous.”

At this, Mark shot her a look across the bathroom. “Bridget, let’s be serious.”

“OK, fine,” she said, busying herself with a loose string on the hem of her skirt. “But still, I thought it was an incredibly romantic idea and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Until, you know…”

“Bridget, I know.” 

At this, Bridget looked up at Mark. Despite the sick smell in the bathroom, Bridget couldn’t help admiring her boyfriend. He had a becoming flush across his cheeks, and his shirt was practically unbuttoned all the way. The fabric that still sat flush against his skin was clinging to the contours of his pecs and arms with sweat, and his hair actually looked more water-soaked than sweat-soaked. The sleeves of his shirt were still rolled up, and his amber eyes were looking at her with a desperate kind of longing–the kind of longing that shows all plans of intimacy on an anniversary being shot to hell. 

Before she could stop the words from coming out of her mouth, Bridget blurted, “If you weren’t throwing your guts up, you’d be quite sexy right now.”

At this declaration, Mark shifted his sitting position to get a better look at Bridget. His face clearly expressed that he thought she was being ludicrous. “What, pray tell, makes you say that?” he asked, leaning a bit forward. 

“Well, your shirt is all wet and so is your hair…it’s all clinging to you, like you just climbed out of a lake or something.”

She could see the lightbulb go off in Mark’s head as he began to shake it in disbelief. “Don’t you dare, Bridget Jones,” he said, giving her one of his famous looks.

“I’m just saying…if your first name wasn’t Mark, I’d think it was Fitzwi-”

Mark cut her off. “Bridget,” he said in a warning tone.

_“I’m just saying.”_

Mark grimaced, groaned, and ducked his head back into the toilet. Bridget let out an exasperated sigh. It looked like any Mr. Darcy fantasies would have to wait until next anniversary.


End file.
